


Tramp the Dirt Down

by MarkoftheAsphodel



Category: Fire Emblem Series, Fire Emblem: Seisen no Keifu | Fire Emblem: Genealogy of the Holy War
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-26
Updated: 2018-04-26
Packaged: 2019-04-28 09:52:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 600
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14446713
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MarkoftheAsphodel/pseuds/MarkoftheAsphodel
Summary: Seliph, under the weight of Thracian dreams he's never dreamt, treads the fine line between justice and contempt.





	Tramp the Dirt Down

**Author's Note:**

> Written as a tumblr prompt courtesy of InkSplatterM, but said prompt was based on my own Thracia 776 playlist and I've been noodling fragmentary drafts on this concept since 2013. So here it is!

How does one dispose of a king? 

Seliph ought to know this by now, having seen the last of Dannan and Bloom, but with both of those he could rightly tell himself they were usurpers with no just claim to the thrones they died defending. This is different. The soil thrown up in hasty clumps by the gravediggers’ spades is Travant’s own birthright. 

_Some might think we’re the usurpers_ , Seliph thinks as he glances over at his cousin, now one step closer to his destiny as Thracia’s king. Despite everything Lewyn’s told him, Seliph can’t quite believe every poor soul in Thracia longs for liberation in the form of conquest. He’s lived in occupied Isaach too long to think that any people are going to welcome without hesitation the new order that comes at the edge of a invader’s blade, or the point of a finely-dressed foreigner’s lance. 

Where is Lewyn, anyway? Seliph expected him to be here to see Travant laid in the earth. Instead, it’s just Cousin Leif, his white armor streaked in red dust and brown blood, and behind him Finn, who’s staring into the open grave with an expression so bleak it disturbs Seliph. Standing on the other side of the pit is Oifey, who just looks profoundly sad. After a few moments, Oifey seems to notice Seliph’s own unease, and he offers up some words of reassurance.

“Travant didn’t even give your aunt and uncle this much.”

Seliph nods, while Leif just makes a small indignant sound of agreement. And that’s it– no more worries that the grave isn’t long enough for Travant’s tall body, so he’s placed in it with his shoulders raised and his head slumped to the side. No worries that the entirely unnecessary bonds at his wrists weren’t cut before his body was lowered. Even so, Seliph flinches at the bone-cracking sound when the lance Travant carried is snapped and both halves dropped onto his stripped body.

It wasn’t Gungnir. If Travant had shown up that day with the sacred Heaven Lance, the battle would’ve gone the other way, and everyone present knows it. Even as it is, Finn is clearly using his own lance for support, and Seliph has the passing thought that it’s the will to see Travant thrown in this hole that’s been keeping the knight on his feet.

Is this just going to keep on raging until every last one of them is dead? Seliph realize everyone’s waiting on him, on the Scion of Light, to speak or move or in some way preside over this awful scene. Without really thinking it through, he scrapes up a handful of Thracian soil from the piles strewn around his feet. The dust streams through his fingers in a fine rain, down upon the discolored body of a crusader and king.

“Let us be at peace,” he says. 

His voice doesn’t sound very convincing. But he’s the one person who can turn away without asking for anyone’s leave, and so Seliph does, dust stinging at his eyes. After a few steps, Seliph realizes he hears music– a melancholy piping sound that’s blended with the summer wind, underscoring the bleak and unceremonious burial. It’s Lewyn, up on the ramparts, playing his flute. He’s watching Seliph as he plays, and Seliph stops his aimless walk and gazes up at this other former king.

His heart wants to understand something, wants it desperately, but his mind, whirling like the eddies of dust on the Thracian plains, understands nothing right now. It’s all just blood and dust and this music that sounds like heartbreak.

**Author's Note:**

> The rude manner in which Travant is put away is inspired by the similar treatment given to England's King Richard III courtesy of the Lancastrians what deposed him. Also a close listen to the song "Tramp The Dirt Down" by Elvis Costello, references to Margaret Thatcher aside, might reveal a bit more about this particular shortfic.


End file.
